The Window
by Stezia Ann
Summary: Stella has always watched those from afar, hidden behind the pages of books among the coziness of her own book store. But a meeting with a friendly stranger changes her outlook on life far beyond the barrier of her small world.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

All my life I have looked out windows and watched the world spin. Most of the time, from the comfort of distance and glass I had watched people. There is something truly fascinating about watching people walk by over the busy streets of a congested city.

True, most would say that watching people is rather eerie. However tthere is something comforting about watching people in their natural habitat, from the elderly man in their overly high pants, and wool caps in early spring; to the rapper want-to-be and his low slung, oversized jeans and overly exaggerated walk. They live and breathe and are oblivious to those around them, self-assured and unaware of the young woman sitting behind the counter of a small corner book store observing their comings and goings.

My life had been spent reading adventure stories of H.G. Wells and Dumas and yet never having any of my own. All my life had been spent living in a five block radius and never seeing the world beyond the pages of books. Instead I imagined it in the lives of those that walked by, the want-to-be rapper hustling his game, trying to sell his CD, or just to be heard by one good produce. Or the old man with the too-high waisted pants and his weekly trek to the store to get his aging wife flowers to adorn her window seal by her bedside. There was a plethora of stories and mine was simple - my mother loved books, so she built a small business and when she got sick and passed away she left it to her daughter.

So here I sat, reading yet another adventure story by a famous author by the name of Clive Custler, people watching, and hoping for a customer to be wowed by my knowledge of books.

The small bell rang at the door and I am greeted by the man I called 'Handsome English Gentleman'. My heart beat skipped as he stepped in, wrapped in a wool scarf and coat to ward off the chill of the winter's gray day.

Those warm gray eyes flash up to mine and a small smile comes to his face as he says in that velvet English accent, 'Why hello Ms. Gonzalez, how are you this fine winter's day?'

I could tell just by the look of him he was well traveled, and wealth. However, somehow, once a month he ventures into my small corner of the world to find a book. He was my breath of fresh air in the midst of many dusty books. I smile at him, knowing my crooked smile and single dimple would make a fool of me as I say softly, 'Not much, staying warm and enjoying an adventure.'

There was something so comforting from him acknowledging my existance when so few did. He gives me a small nod and disappears among the isles, leaving me to wonder what he would find this time. His love of poetry made my heart slam again. Last time it had been a small book of poems by Robert Frost, who would it be this time.

The bell chimes again and I look to the door, seeing the old hunched back of Mr. Clerk come through the door. He looked more tired than usual as I call out, 'Hello Mr. Clerk.'

Those old world wary eyes meet mine and finally a smile breaks among the leathery wrinkles that made up his kind face. He gives me a nod and says in that weak voice of the very old and says, 'As well as I can. Do you have any new William Johnson books?'

'I believe so, would you like me to see for you.'

He waves his hand with a chuckle and says, 'No, no, I can manage. It will be good for me to find my own this time.'

With that he shuffles to the paper bound westerns, in search of a good read. Though I people watched, I loved to talk to others, a passion I noticed few enjoyed. But as I watched this old man who had become a true friend, I couldn't help but wonder what went through his mind at his age.

Closing my book, I find my eyes wandering back to the window, hearing the muffled honks and scuffle of the world outside. My bubble of a world was small, but I was happy with it. So few found contentment in their lives, scurrying for the next best thing, but I found in my short life, the profound joy of a day.

Just then I hear a book being placed on the counter, Mr. Clerk looking a little tired as I say, 'Don't tell me you went horseback riding Mr. Clerk?'

'Almost, but this fine young man helped me.'

My brown eyes jump up to the grey ones of 'Handsome English Gentleman' and I blush. Looking down quickly, I grab Mr. Clerks book and mumble, 'Thank you sir for helping.'

'My pleasure.'

My shy nature had left my duely unprepared to deal with the handsome man in front of me, as I rung up the book, wrapped it and handed it to Mr. Clerk. He pays, and as I take his money, my eyes dart up to 'Handsome English Gentleman', he had a frown on his face. Odd for him to have a look such as that.

He wasn't looking down at Mr. Clerk, but just above his hand, as if reading something and looking troubled by what he saw. But I knew this strong jawed, raven haired man could have little to worry about, as Mr. Clerk heads out with a goodbye wave and smile. Mr. Clerk was always a favored customer, faithful to his weekly trek to my little bookstore.

When I turn back to the 'Handsome English Gentleman' I see him staring after Mr. Clerk with a sad expression. When his eyes turn to me, they are no longer that odd dove grey but that of an owls yellow. I blink, showing a little surprise as he slides a book of Isaac Asimov and I quickly scan it to hide my shock. His eyes, what had happened to his eyes? I say in the pedestrian way of the employed, 'That will be $11.53.'

When I look up at him again, those dove grey eyes meet mine again. How strange. He hands me the money, eyes flicking to the glass door with which Mr. Clerk had just departed. When he looks back at me, I notice he is looking above my own head, as if staring off. There is a moment of shock and then his eyes fly to mine, and then his expression transitions once again to that of a placid lake. I hand him his change as he says softly. 'Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.'

'Excuse me,' I ask, confused.

'A famous quote from Mr. Asimov,' he says with a little mischievous smile, holding up the book.

A warm smile and small laugh from me and I shake my head. Confusing to be sure, but I welcomed distraction from my own thoughts. He nods and walks to the door in that sure stride I knew of this Englishman, but when he opens the door he stops, looks back at me and says, 'My name is Nolon McCleary by the way. I will be stopping by more often from here on out.'

With that the 'Handsome English Gentleman' by the name of Nolon McCleary leaves my books store, but stays in my mind. A man to watch from my window and the safety of my book store. How would his life go? Would he become a famous banker, lawyer, doctor, or was he already and was anonymous to the world beyond his own, like myself? I could imagine and I would, after all I was just an anonymous as he.

 _ **Author's Notes** : Thank you for reading, this is a small pet project I have been setting aside and crafting for several months. It will not be as swift in coming as my other book, as it will be deeper and more lyrical. A story of love and loss, of mystery and adventure; that I hope you will enjoy. Savor it like a fine Malbec wine, a great sheet of Bach, or rich Swiss dark chocolate, bitter but sweet, something to indulgene in ._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The sounds of the honking street below was innumerable for a city such as was New York. The day was gray once again with that never ending splendor of making the world around it muted, except for the man with the neon yellow shirt of the day laborer. Sitting there with my morning Folgers's coffee and newspaper. I stare out another window in my life, that of the apartment above the bookstore. It was more like a secret window which no one looked up to see if another stared. Unlike the birdwatchers I saw in the park with their large binoculars, and notebook, I sat at my small breakfast nook, people watching.

Mr. Sinclair walks by with his little poodle named FeeFee, wrapped in the scarf his wife had made him last few for Christmas. It wasn't the best handmade thing in the world, but he told me it was warm and made with love. His wife was sick with cancer and fading fast these days. He wasn't a fan of his wife's white little fluff of a dog, but he did what he could now for his ailing wife. My heart sang out to him and his plight, until I see Junior.

Junior was new to the block, living with his aunt, Rosa De La O. He hated being called Junior, named after his late father. He was a handful as Rosa frequently said in her rapid fire Spanish. He had moved here to get away from bad influences in Chicago, but New York City seemed to only be adding fuel to the fire. He was dragged into my little bookstore once in a while on the heels of his aunt. Rosa would give me updates, speaking in Spanish which Junior didn't understand. I would nod, hum, and try to give some quick advice and references to help her out. She appreciated them greatly, and often would return the next day to buy the book I suggested out of the eye of her nephew.

Turning back to the paper, I flip the page to what my mother loved to call the funny papers. It was an expression I couldn't really relate to and seemed rather odd. It was unlikely I would know anyone in these pages of death. But then my eyes catch on a picture of a man I knew well. My breath leaves me as if I had been gut punched.

 _Herald Rufus Clerk, aged 92 died last Tuesday in his sleep. He is survived by his son Jethro Clerk, wife Ruth Clerk and two grandchildren, Ricky and Persephone Clerk, and one great grandchild Abcdee Clerk. His funeral will be held by Rose Memorial on Saturday at 2pm February 10th._

Slowly the paper slides from my hands in shock. Mr. Clerk had been in my store looking for his next great western and likely never had a chance to read it. Tears welled in my eyes as I thought about the kind older gentlemen. I could still remember the day I met him, nearly twenty years prior when I too was like Junior and going through my rebellious stage at fourteen. He had come up to me, as I had just had an argument with my mother over my choice of friends. I had been in the far corner of the store, sitting in the small corner with the angled window that looked on the back garden my mother slaved over. I hadn't spoken at first, just glanced at him as he put his cane beside him, one leg extended as he sighed. We sat in silence for a while, until he said, "I have lived for a long time, and when you live for a long time you see a similar look in the eyes around you, whether it is of joy, hope, anger, or jealousy. You kid, you look like you want to explode.'

I jerk, looking at this old man. His head was leaned back on the oversized high-back leather chair, eyes closed with a small smile on his face. He continues, 'I can tell you from experience kid, it isn't worth it. No friend in this world - unless he is a true friend- will be there when you are at your lowest. I believed that any friend was good, and I decided to defy what in my gut was right. In the end what I got from it was shrapnel in my gut, and a gun wound in the left thigh. That friend I thought was so good, he died because he was a bullheaded fool. You kid, you don't look like that to me. I might not know your circumstances, but I feel your anger. Whoever you are mad at who has given you advise, I can bet that in your gut you know they are right. Go make peace, making war only leads to scars.'

With that he stood, grabbing his book on his way down the isle and left me stunned. That night after talking things over with my mom I asked her if she had said something to Mr. Clerk. Her reply was enough to astound me. It was a no. After that, every time Mr. Clerk came in, I sat down with him in that little corner of the store and I learned his story and told my own. Since then I looked at people as living books, each writing a new page of their life. Though I loved to watch people and saw the synopsis of their life, it was only that, a synopsis. When I saw one that looked interesting, I conversed with that person, that living book. To my delight, I found adventure stories, love stories, and stories of loss, but most of all I saw hope.

As the tears slide down my face, I whispered as I looked out the window, 'Thank you Mr. Clerk for you beautiful story. The ending is so sad, but I will share what I have learned from you to others.'

8*

My eyes were red and puffy as I sat behind the counter watching people come and go once again from the window of the bookstore. It had been a quiet morning to my everlasting relief. Mourning the loss of a friend was never easy, and knowing one that had such a profound impact on my life had passed was even harder. The bell rings and I look up in surprise. Junior was standing there, looking around a little awkwardly, but finally sees me. He jerks as if surprised to see me, but quickly ducks his head and disappears to the back of the store. I didn't say anything, smiling as I look down at the book in my own hands.

He was skipping school, something I had done often in my youth while still dealing with those I had thought were friends. I read a few more pages and suddenly the memory of this morning flashes in my eyes. Without realizing my own tenacity, I stand and walk to the back of the store. Junior sat there in the same chair I had, looking out at the now established garden my mother had made. He had his head down, looking at his phone, fingers flying over the screen. Grabbing a book I knew well, I sit down beside him in the chair Mr. Clerk had occupied. I wasn't like Mr. Clerk with wisdom that abounded with age, but I could observe things and be a silent companion. He glanced up at me occasionally, looking both irritated and intrigued as I flipped the page of my book. This was so strange of me, never would I be so bold as I was a shy person by nature.

'What do you want?' He says with irritation and accusation.

Looking at him over the top of my book, I say, 'Nothing.'

'Look, I know you and my aunt talk about me. I have nothing to say to you, I don't even know you,' He says, his voice raising a little as he works himself up to anger.

'Í know.' There was no point in denying a fact I knew well. He was a young boy turning into a young man, I knew he was angry that his mother had sent him here, that he was forced to give up his old phone and all the numbers of those he considered friends.

'What do you want, man?! I have no beef with you, are you going to rat me out to my aunt?!' He stood there, his breathing heavy with rage.

Still sitting there with calm rushing through me, though this young angry bull of a man was standing there over me with clenched fist. Slowly I look up at him, a small smile on my face and eyes mild, I say, 'No Nathaniel, I am not going to say anything to your aunt about today.'

'Good!' He said triumphantly, a smile as if he thought he had intimidated me.

As he walks down the isle, I call out, 'But remember Nathaniel, whatever is begun in anger, ends in shame.'

He stops suddenly, looking back at me with a frown. It was that of confusion and guilt. But instead of coming back to confront me, or rage, he lowers his head and leaves the store as quietly as he came. Letting out a breath, I stand. How sad to see such an angry young man, he saw only what he reprieved, not what could be. Standing a little shakily, having done something I never thought I would do, I return to the counter. I place the book down and whisper, 'Thank you Benjamin for those words of wisdom.'

I knew the book would come in handy, but I never believed in that way, _Quotations of Benjamin Franklin._

Closing my eyes, I let out a long sigh, putting my head in my hands. The unexpected voice I hear next makes me jump, 'What you did just then was rather spectacular.'

Jerking upright, I see Nolon McCleary, his gray eyes smiling at me. Blinking rapidly, 'What?'

The 'Handsome English Gentlemen' just smiles wider, those rows of white teeth flashing as he replies, 'With the boy. I never expected something like that.'

'What did you expect?' I ask, both intrigued and curious by this Englishman.

My eyes flit over him, in his gray wool long coat and black scarf, hair mussed by the evident breeze outside the bookstore. His smile radiated as he explains, 'It is rare to see anyone interact with the youth today, as so many are irritated by the wisdom of their elders. But to see you take the initiative was invigorating and astounding while he seemed to try to want to goad you into a fight.'

Slowly I look down at the book in front of me and quote, 'We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid.'

'So true,' he says as he places a book by Poe on the counter.

Ringing it up, as he looks at the knick knack items on the counter - from book marks, to candy and candles, he says, 'An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.'

'Excuse me?' I ask, as I continue in the monotone of the working class, 'That will be $17.52.'

'A quote from that book.' I says pointing ti the _Quotations By Benjamin Franklin._

'You've read it?'

A nod, as he continues, 'As I believe you have as well. But I must ask, why have you been crying?'

Jerking in surprise by the sudden personal question, I stutter, but finally find my footing as I explain, 'An old friend of mine passed away last week. I just read the obituary this morning, it was a shock.'

Mr. McCleary frowns, face soft with sadness as he nods and replies, 'Fear not death for the sooner we die, the longer we are immortal.'

So true those words were, as I nod with a smile. If only this man knew Mr. Clerk loved quoting Benjamin Franklin, as I hand Mr. McCleary his change, and say, 'No truer are the words of the wise.'

'I don't know that quote from Benjamin Franklin,' he says with a slight cock of his head and raised brow.

Smiling, I say softly, 'No, it's a quote from my friend.'

Mr. McCleary nods as he takes his book and asks, 'This book club here on the advertisement meets here every Wednesday?"

How surprising that he noticed and I nod. He smiles, gray eyes flashing as he replies, 'I think it would be rather interesting to attend. Will you be there?'

'Yes.' The charming smile returns as he nods and with that sweeps from the bookstore in the flourish only an English Gentleman could - with a wave and goodbye at the door. I was both somewhat amused and surprised he would be interested in something as mundane as a book club with four older women and myself, though he had yet to know this of our book club.


End file.
